


Reptiles Divine: On the Formation of New Religious Movements in Lands of Recent Contact

by Indices



Series: (what) a series of long, strange trips (it's been!) [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anthropology, Cults, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Humor, Multi, Tags May Change, highly contrived parallel arcs, the power of friendship and other macguffins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indices/pseuds/Indices
Summary: Cythril Evenflare, ex-ambassador and failure of an academic, has been summoned to Zandalar by disparate forces. On one hand, the Horde itself, whose need for new allies demands that she rejoin their diplomatic corps. On the other, an anonymous, self-proclaimed "fan," who promises an expedition to study a most peculiar cult. Convinced that neither has her best interests in mind, she nonetheless heads willingly to her doom... because, really, does she have anything better to do?Concerning pseudo-anthropology, a transplanted dinosaur cult, an exiled wardruid, a doomed archaeologist, a fraudulent paladin, the vice-chairwoman of the Friends of the Explorers’ League, and various other horrors.
Series: (what) a series of long, strange trips (it's been!) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937956
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Letters: The Reception of Epistles Both Agreeable and Otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the sheer number of characters that might be mentioned in this, I’ve decided to only tag ones that will appear eventually. So if a character/group is tagged, I’m at least planning for them to actually show up, not just be referenced. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the constant editing of tags and text! I really can’t make up my mind sometimes.

Late one afternoon, as Cythril Evenflare awoke from unsettling dreams she found herself at her desk transformed into a monstrous vermin. 

Figuratively. More literally, she awoke with an epiphany.

_By the Light_ , she thought to herself, as though it was possible for her to think to anyone else. _Am I a failure?_

But no, that couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?

Remnants of sleep clung like cobwebs to her mind. With what felt like a great effort, Cythril lifted her head and peered out from the lone window that graced her basement office. It was growing dark outside. From somewhere in the distance—presumably the lacework of alleyways that branched off of Augur’s Row—she heard what might have been a scream. 

Muffled voices filtered down from the floors above. She blinked her eyes. At ground level she could just barely make out the street itself, let alone divine the locations of any unsavory noises that one might detect on a given night. 

She sighed and laid her head back down on the paper. From this angle, the words seemed to blur—or maybe that was just where her cheek had smeared the ink.

_Smeared the ink?_

She leapt up immediately, muttering an expletive. A dark smudge ran directly across the center of the page.

For once in her life, Cythril found herself wishing she had become a mage. Of course _this_ had to happen when she’d just spent all day and night on this chapter. It was the latest in a seemingly never-ending series of hints that her magnum-opus-to-be, _On the Formation of New Religious Movements in Lands of Recent Contact_ , would forever remain in the future tense.

Which would of course make her a failure. There was no way around it. After all she’d done to convince those brown-nosing bastards at the Reliquary of her loyalty to Silvermoon and to the Horde—they would surely take further delay as a sign of her unreliability. Perhaps they’d refuse to publish it altogether. It was a _very_ bad time to have once affiliated with an organization as ardently neutral as the Argent Crusade. 

She stared at the paper for a few more seconds. Then she went to go wash her face. 

As she mechanically scrubbed the ink from her cheek, she happened to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the water. Ordinarily brown, the skin beneath her eyes had taken on an unfortunately bruise-colored tinge, and the eyes themselves, while perhaps a duller green than the fel-tainted glow of a decade ago, looked utterly enervated. Overall, the effect was nothing short of cadaverous.

Cythril contemplated this for a few moments.

Besides the manuscript, there had been… something else, from before she fell asleep. Something that had been troubling her.

Setting aside the washbasin, she steered herself back in the direction of her chair. When she reached it, Cythril sank down, stared up at the ceiling, beginning to comb her mind for a clue as to what it might have been. Truthfully, this was mostly to distract herself from the dismal outlook of her career.

It wasn’t any of the usual culprits. Those still troubled her, but only passively. Her parents’ disappointment, their deaths, the forfeiture of her inheritance, her dwindling funds… all stagnant, like bottled manawyrms wriggling futilely in the back of her mind. 

Oh, that was it. The _mail_. She hadn’t checked it in a while.

Having nothing better to do, Cythril got back up and walked over to the door. Beyond stretched the stairway leading up, from which the view was flatly ominous. Twilight had purpled the skies and was now rolling merrily down the streets. Their lamps—although much brighter than they were several years ago—still failed to illuminate the sinister silhouettes darting across the terraces. Light pooled around the lampposts in sad orange puddles, no more than a few feet across, as though afraid to venture further. 

No matter what newfangled lamplighting initiatives Theron may have sponsored, night was when Murder Row truly came alive.

As she ascended, the scent of bloodthistle became perceptibly stronger. Muttered conversation, muffled incantations, and the clink of coins seeped out into the ambience. No murder, though. That would be quiet, if the murderer was any good. And the murderers of Murder Row were _very_ good.

With this in mind, Cythril Evenflare was fortunate to have narrowly escaped the designation of “average civilian.” She was also not _not_ a civilian. It was the murky sort of category inhabited by “adventurers,” former “adventurers,” and other individuals possessed of combat and combat-adjacent skills sans actual military affiliation. Moreover, it had given her the necessary _insurance_ to rent out this place at such a suspiciously low price, without resorting to anything as cumbersome as carrying a giant sword. 

The mailbox stood placidly outside, a few paces from the basement entrance. Sometimes she felt as though it was her only friend. Sometimes she wanted to fall to her knees and embrace it, weeping hysterically.

Somehow she was able to resist that impulse, just this once. Methodically collecting the mail that was addressed to her, she came back inside and laid them on her desk—careful to clear away the manuscript pages first.

There were several advertisements, the latest edition of a magazine she never bothered to unsubscribe from, and a single commission for lacy underthings. (Ever since she’d moved back to Silvermoon, Evenflare had done her best to set up a side-business as a seamstress, but the income so far had been disappointing. She _had_ considered advertising her abilities for healing and exorcisms and the like, but thought better of it. Word of a priest living on Murder Row would raise eyebrows.) 

Then there was a letter from her brother. She stared at the envelope for a few seconds before setting it aside, just for the moment. No doubt it would be the usual, and she was no more willing to take his money or to move back to the family estate than she had been the last time.

Finally, at the bottom of the stack was a rough-looking envelope covered with what Evenflare hoped were only dirt stains. Was it a threat from one of the local Benevolent Associations? She hadn’t been honored with one of those yet, but she supposed it was only a matter of time.

She opened it carefully, mindful of any suspicious residue on or within the folds. Even if there was no poison, explosives, or inflictions of a magical nature—perhaps they expected her to use the same envelope to send in a “protection fee.” Who knew? The gangs of Silvermoon had always been complex and secretive in their dealings. In all her time in academia, which was admittedly less _protracted_ than that of some of her peers, she had never come across a thorough study on them.

With the tips of her fingers, she extracted the paper from within, and began to read.

_Dear Ms. Evenflare,_

_You don’t know me, but I’m a great admirer of your work. Being an archaeologist myself, my research involves a surprising amount of overlap with anthropology—particularly your area of expertise. I’ve read all of your articles, even the ones that the Reliquary put out—and let me tell you, it was hard getting ahold of those!_

_Anyway, I’m sure you get fan mail all the time, so I’ll get right to the point. I was wondering if you would be interested in joining a small expedition to Zandalar, for the purposes of documenting the activities of a cult that I first encountered in Un’goro Crater. I have reason to believe that their beliefs have evolved since the opening of Zandalar to the Horde, and that they have shifted their base of operations to those isles, possibly following their acquisition of a certain Zandalari artifact._

_I know what you’re thinking. But if they can sneak an organization with members of nominally Alliance-affiliated peoples into a Horde-allied territory, then why can’t we? As for the benefits, not only will you be able to conduct some valuable research in the field, our benefactor is willing to cover all expenses in addition to a stipend. Don’t you think that might be worth the risk?_

_If you’re interested, just meet me in Booty Bay in a month’s time, with everything packed. I’ll contact you when you get there._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Biggest Fan_

_P.S. I’m not sure how much of this they’ll let past the censors, so I had someone personally drop it into your mailbox. Don’t worry about it too much!_

Cythril stared at the letter for several minutes, retracing with her eyes the lines of technically flawless yet hurriedly-scrawled Thalassian script. This had to be a joke. Not only was it patently too good to be true, it was _absurd_. 

For one thing, if they could simply have someone drop it into the mailbox, then why couldn’t that same proxy be persuaded to meet her _here_? And did they really expect her to fall for a letter with so little substantial information? 

Moreover—and this was perhaps the most puzzling of all—why in the name of the Light would someone decide to pull this sort of scam on such an _obscure_ academic? ...Unless they somehow knew of her situation, and just how bleak the outlook was. 

Her lip curled. _Easy pickings._

But that wouldn’t quite make sense, either. If they knew she was destitute, and estranged from her relatives, why bother with such an elaborate scheme to relieve her of her possessions? 

Well, whatever the case, she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. She had work to do. This "Biggest Fan" of hers would just have to languish in whatever agony or lack thereof that her inaction brought them. 

Just as she was putting this letter onto the pile of all the others, a tiny slip of paper dropped from behind it. She scooped it up, squinting.

_Lady Evenflare:_

_Due to the recent escalation of conflicts with the Alliance, we regret to inform you that the Reliquary will no longer be able to publish your research. We hope you understand that our funds must be redirected to more immediate endeavors. Should the war come to an end at some point in the future, feel free to contact us again._

_Regards,_

_Tae’thelan Bloodwatcher_

_High Examiner of the Reliquary_

She closed her eyes for several seconds, willing her lungs to draw the deepest breath that they were capable of. This was fine. She had expected it, and it was about time, anyway.

Then, with a tremor to her hand, she reached for her brother’s letter. She was developing a faint but distinct sinking feeling about its contents.

_Cythril,_

_This came down from the Sunfury Spire this morning. At least, it arrived then. It’s possible that they think you’re still living over here._

_I think you should check it out._

_Hope you’re doing well. Please don’t worry too much._

_\- Caidmin_

Enclosed the envelope was a different sheet of paper, printed on much sturdier-looking material.

_LEGATE CYTHRIL EVENFLARE:_

_By order of Her Ladyship Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde, your presence in Orgrimmar is requested no more than three weeks from the time that you receive this missive. Please limit the number of personal belongings that are to accompany you, as you will be departing for Zandalar by ship upon arrival._

_This communique is being distributed_ en masse _to all civil servants in our records, retired or otherwise, with the diplomatic skills deemed appropriate for extended engagement with potential allies. Your presence is urgently needed, and will serve as a critical asset to our current war effort._

_For the Horde!_

A cascade of thoughts poured madly through her mind. How could Theron let this happen? Well, of course he could let it happen, in fact it was probably fair to say that he _had_ to let this happen. Far be it from him to stop the Dark Lady from poaching his former civil servants right out from under his nose. Otherwise, she was likely to rip out his backbone and beat him with it.

If only Cythril had the money. She could’ve at least _tried_ to bribe someone to scrub her name from the registry.

And what about all those “adventurers” running around? Did the Horde finally decide it was too much trouble to continuously let a bunch of murderous mercenaries bungle their diplomatic affairs? Although, all things considered, the method had been working out better than she ever would have thought possible. 

Alas, poor Vol’jin. Perhaps none of this would have happened if he’d lived. It was almost as if there was some sort of cosmic force with a vested interest in counterbalancing the death of the elder Wrynn, may he rest in incurable pugnacity, etc.

But of course, that was absurd. And in truth, there was every likelihood that Vol’jin would have done the exact same thing if things got desperate enough. 

_Requested._ She wanted to laugh. Of course, she doubted she was worth the trouble of actually _killing_ , but… Caidmin had such faith in the Horde. 

A _family_ , he’d called it. It would be unfair to him if his new family were to question his loyalty just for this, when it was her fault that he’d had to inherit in the first place. 

Feeling more detached from reality by the second, Cythril stood up and gathered all the letters into a vague approximation of a pile. As she did, one corner of the so-called fanmail peeked cheekily out from the stack. 

It seemed she was going to be easy pickings after all.


	2. Offers: Between the Depths of Boredom and Certain Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied suicidal ideation (it's brief, but just in case)

Dawn. 

Jih’ris went through the motions. 

Her mouth tasted like sand, coarse and grainy. The ground beneath her bedroll had been stone, from the ruins, and when she pushed herself up it was with the usual assortment of aches and pains. 

She ducked out from under the half-tent, which was really little more than one sheet of hides draped over a wooden frame, propped up at an angle so as to shield the occupant from the sun. But it was good for visibility and easy to vacate at a moment’s notice. In Vol’dun, those overruled comfort.

The sun had yet to rise, and a silent wind gusted across the dunes, stirring sand into the air. Soon, the others would be awakening, to seize the cooler hours before the sun reached its zenith. 

But, for a single moment, she could almost feel alone. 

She breathed in deeply. The air smelled... clean.

It was one of the few things she liked about the desert. The sense of perfect quiet that sometimes fell over it, if one cared to listen. It made the place feel oddly eternal: as though it could go on forever, in space and time, and still be covered in that same unending blanket of sand.

The feeling didn’t last. As soon as she had stepped from under the tent, Mugjabu was waving her over. In the stable behind him, an alpaca snorted in her sleep, idly flicking her ears. 

“Be careful,” he cautioned. He passed her four empty burlap bags, and a small satchel of jerky. “Mojambo’s been eyeing this place. They’ve got a nasty lot prowling around.”

Jih’ris nodded curtly, clipping the bags to her belt. 

Like most deserts, Vol’dun suffered a dearth of plantlife. A rare exception was Akunda’s bite. If they couldn’t forage alternatives, that would be on the menu, and the alpacas _despised_ Akunda’s bite. This was why the Scorched Sands Outpost needed someone to venture into the oasis to the north. Having decided that her particular abilities were most suited to warding off the wasps and saurolisks that congregated there, she found the task falling to her more often than not. 

That was the arrangement that they had come to—Jih’ris would help feed their alpacas, and they would give her a place to stay.

Wordlessly, she walked to the edge of the camp, shifted into her pterrordax form, and took wing. 

There had been a time when she cared enough to conceal her background. Now, trusting the scars on her face and the doubtlessly deadened look in her eyes, she simply counted on others not to ask. 

***

By the time she returned, it was nearly noon. Jih’ris was covered in sweat and sported a shallow scratch down her left arm—one of the wasps had taken a swipe at her as she shifted back to hack at a leafy branch, high in one of the trees. Still, it wasn’t an actual _sting_. That was about as much luck as she could hope for. 

Jih’ris had filled the bags to the brim: the extent that she could carry before the act of doing so would hinder her flight. She deposited them on the ground in front of Mugjabu. 

As she turned to go fetch water and bandages, he spoke again.

“Someone’s here for you.” 

She turned back, but Mugjabu was already busying himself with the feed bags. “Over by Razgaji. Might be a good idea to go and meet them, eh?”

Jih’ris frowned. His too-casual tone, coupled with the unwillingness to look at her, suggested that this was no ordinary visitor—if any visitors for a friendless exile could be considered ordinary. 

An assassin? Unlikely. They had always trusted the desert to do the job, and no matter her crime, she was just as vulnerable to exposure as anyone else.

“I see,” she said neutrally, with a nod of thanks. It wasn’t much in the way of gratitude, but he had never seen fit to thank her in words, either. And there was no indication that this development would be for the better. 

Young children and Pa'kura mystics could afford to believe in benevolent, loa-sent strangers. She could not.

Jih’ris kept a hand on her polearm, just in case.

Razgaji was standing by the central pavilion. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was looking off into the distance. If not for the stiffness of his posture, one might have thought him entirely unaware of the person next to him.

The stranger was Sandfury. That much was clear. A leather pack was strapped to her back. No visible weapons, though she held something that might have been a walking stick. 

Beneath a sand-colored cloak, her stature seemed frail and somewhat hunched. A wild mane of hair fell down around her shoulders, lending the illusion of height. It was difficult to discern age from that face. Briefly, Jih’ris remembered a statue of Zul’jin she had once seen in Tal’aman—the sharp features, the glittering intelligence. 

But that was where the resemblance ended. Where the statue’s single eye had been hard with hatred—a vengeful fury, her younger self had imagined, the fury of the wronged—these eyes seemed to hold no emotion at all. Not even boredom. Only a cold, faraway sort of patience.

And the stranger was _smiling_. 

At first, it had only been a slight, self-satisfied thing, like that of someone viewing a comic show of dubious quality from the balcony. But as she caught sight of Jih’ris, the smile widened.

“Ah, that must be her.”

The stranger spoke lightly, if to no one in particular. Her voice sounded reedy. But there was a dry rasp to it, like scales over sand, or the flick of a snake’s tongue from its mouth. 

The Zandali was perfect. The accent was unlike any troll’s that she had heard. Jih’ris may have lacked the experience that travel afforded, but Zuldazar was as cosmopolitan of a city as one could get, and she had grown up on its sidestreets. Whoever this was, she was almost certainly a foreigner.

She stared at Jih’ris, and bowed low. 

“Wardruid. What an honor.”

Jih’ris glanced at Razgaji. “Who is this?” she asked sharply.

“Well,” he started, “she claims to be a traveler from Kalimdor, who came here looking for… a druid.” 

“And how,” she pressed, “does she know that to be me? Did you—?” 

The purported traveler cut in. 

“He merely informed me of the presence of such a person here, after I told him of my goals. You must excuse my peculiarities—traveling has a tendency to dispense those.” She shrugged. “Or don’t excuse them. I _am_ a merchant, after all, and one must always keep up appearances.” 

Her gaze was still on Jih’ris, but in an instant, it seemed as if that unnerving coldness had dropped away. All that was left was the image of sparkling good cheer. She extended a hand. 

“You may call me Mornbek. As I said, an honor.”

Pain lanced up her arm as Jih’ris reached back and extracted the polearm strapped to her back. It was a double-ended implement that she had liberated, rather messily, from the corpse of a sethrak warrior. The blades were curved; better for hacking than stabbing. 

She swung it around to the stranger’s neck. “ _How do you know._ ”

Razgaji made a sound that fell somewhere between a scoff and subdued choking. For a supposed traveling merchant, however, Mornbek seemed nonplussed. 

“Several minutes ago a pterrordax alighted down from the sky. Soon after, you came over. I drew my own conclusions.” She held up a finger, as if indicating something that should be obvious. “See? Nothing so esoteric.”

Jih’ris stared at her for a long while. Very slowly, she lowered the polearm. “And what do you want with me?”

“Guidance,” replied Mornbek, almost instantly. “To an… unusual location.” 

She gestured widely with her arms, as if unveiling some grand, invisible exhibit. 

“I intend to visit the Necropolis of Bwonsamdi in Nazmir.”

Jih’ris raised her brows. Even in her former occupation, she had scarcely ventured out of Zuldazar’s surrounding jungles. And to the temple of the loa of death, where it was said that he himself dwelt? The Blood Gate had fallen little more than five years ago. It _was_ true that the Raptari had been called to bolster the defenses—but not to venture beyond it. 

A year later, she had been exiled. 

Typical of a foreigner, to assume that Jih’ris would know all of Zandalar like the back of her hand. But something about this one made her doubt it was so simple.

“Just because I am a druid does not mean that I have been to _that_ place.” She made sure every word was enunciated. “Nor will I bear you on my back.”

Something about this appeared to strike Mornbek as exceptionally funny. She gave a sudden, rattling chuckle.

“That won’t be necessary. All I need is someone more familiar with these lands than I. Someone who can defend themselves. And, if I’m not mistaken, you’d be more willing than most to leave this outpost.” She looked over at Razgaji. “No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” he said with a sigh.

Back to Jih’ris. “You’ll be compensated, obviously. Five gold for each day.”

Jih’ris stared at her silently. What seemed _obvious_ was that she should refuse, turn around, and leave the stranger to her senseless pilgrimage. Besides her suspicious mannerisms, there was something else about her that unsettled Jih’ris, loathe as she was to admit it. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“What are your wares?”

Mornbek blinked. “Begging your pardon?”

“You said you were a merchant. What do you sell?”

Jih’ris expected an answer like “this and that” or “odds and ends.” Something so vague or mundane, so obviously a lie, that it would confirm once and for all that this self-styled salesperson could not be trusted. 

But her smile only grew in dazzling self-assuredness. 

“Clocks.”

She unclasped her cloak and unfolded one half of it, exposing the interior. There, among what must have been around a dozen pockets, buttoned and bulging with irregular shapes, were several cloth strips to which pocketwatches and small hourglasses had been secured. 

“ _Timepieces_ , to be more specific.” Mornbek held a watch up to the sun, squinting at it. The redirected light cast strange patterns over her face. “It would have been impractical to bring all my wares, but I find the ticking noise… comforting.”

Jih’ris had nothing to say to that. 

“I need to treat this wound,” she said brusquely. Turning away from the both of them, she walked off in the direction of the outpost’s supplies.

The foreigner could find her own way if she had so overpowering a death wish. Jih’ris could barely do anything with money in the desert—nor would she have wanted to, even if there was anything to buy. 

From behind her, she heard the rasping voice once more. 

“Please, take some time to consider. I’ll be here until next morning.”

***

Jih’ris could not say what brought her back out after night had fallen. 

Perhaps it was the lingering worry that gnawed at her. The strange troll must have known something of her history—of who Jih’ris _was_. Else she would not have come here, of all places, to ask for a druid.

The moon was waxing. Not quite full, but spindle-shaped, hanging pale and luminous above the desert. Another thing in its favor, she supposed. The night skies were almost always clear.

“Hello again,” said the troll who called herself Mornbek. She sat at the base of a column, cross-legged, outside of the ruined pavilion. “You must have questions.”

Jih’ris spoke flatly. 

“What do you know of me.”

Mornbek shrugged. “No more than what any stranger could. I really did come looking for a druid, because I thought that would be the most favorable choice for my goals. Imagine my delight when your existence was confirmed.

“Then I spent some time asking around the camp, while you were gone—not Razgaji, don’t trouble him about it. Most of them knew very little, or were kind enough not to reveal it. But I know that you suffered from circumstances that must have brought you here. And,” she continued, “I think you are discontent.”

Jih’ris stared at her silently. _You have no right_ , she wanted to say. But something held her tongue.

“Mere weeks ago, the Alliance and Horde set sail for Kul Tiras and Zandalar, respectively. I think you’ll be seeing them around here soon—yes, even in Vol’dun.” Mornbek spoke quietly, without smiling. She seemed almost contemplative. “These are strange times, wardruid. And in such times, even the most ancient of traditions can become… flexible.” 

With a brisk motion, she reached into her cloak. Jih’ris tensed. But when she held the object out into the light, it was merely a small hourglass, half the length of a finger.

As Jih'ris watched, the sand in it began to trickle slowly upwards. She blinked. It was flowing normally again.

“You must know what happened at the Blood Gate. The incursions from Nazmir are becoming more frequent—and things worse than blood trolls are stirring in the heart of that darkness.” 

Mornbek's eyes slid from the hourglass to Jih’ris. “No matter your transgressions, I believe that you are still loyal to Zuldazar. If you should prove your honor in Nazmir, and have it be witnessed by someone of import…”

“You know nothing of my crimes.”

“Perhaps not. But I do know our histories. In such desperate times, they would not be so quick to turn you away.” The cheery merchant of daytime was almost entirely gone. “If Rastakhan can swallow his pride enough to enlist the _Horde_ , then why not you?”

Jih’ris narrowed her eyes. 

“I should have your tongue out for that.”

“Ah.” A flash of smile, triumphant. “So you are still loyal.”

Jih’ris made a disgusted noise, unsure who it was for. She could recognize the telltale signs of puppetry when she saw it. Once had been enough. _Turn away_ , her mind insisted. _You’ve learned your lesson. Turn away now, before you lose your chance_. 

But what would she be returning to? A life of drudgery, wasting away in the middle of this sterile, unchanging desert, while unimaginable horrors encroached on the land she had sworn to protect? Back to gathering the choicest branches for the alpacas, fending off wasps and saurolisks? 

It was not as bad as it could be. Animals didn’t talk much, friend or foe, and even the people around here didn’t speak to her beyond what was absolutely necessary. She could imagine herself growing old; perhaps succeeding Mugjabu when he died. Grey-haired and indefatigable, she would play _ma’da_ to the alpacas, shepherding new exiles through the motions until she herself turned to dust.

Or they would all die a month or week or day from now. Fom a sudden sandstorm, or a sethrak raid, or the endless predations of Mojambu’s gang.

She couldn’t decide which future would be worse.

“I am,” she replied. “But I won't take your gold."

Jih'ris held out a hand.

"Show me your route.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering why the trolls in this chapter don't seem to speak with an accent, it's because they're all speaking in Zandali, so I thought it wouldn't make much sense to give them one. 
> 
> Also, for the curious, I imagine this as being set early on in the expansion—definitely well before the first patch!


	3. Threats: On Social Interaction and the Consequences Thereof

Cythril hated ships.

As far as she was concerned, any form of floating transportation was an appalling idea. Even the discomforts of traveling by portal were preferable. At least those only made her nauseous for seconds at a time. 

She focused on the horizon. The sky was clear, and the dark waters of open ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. 

Cythril had tried closing her eyes, but that just seemed to reduce the world down to the rhythmic motions of the waves. Reading anything was out of the question. Some time ago, she had escaped above deck from a card game between several of her fellow, possibly coerced civil servants, trying desperately not to retch over the side of the _Warchief’s Will_. 

(Commissioned under Thrall, the ship had been tactfully named so that it wouldn’t have to be rebranded every time the Horde underwent a change of leadership.)

Of course, she had only been watching the game. Her excuse was that she didn’t know how to play, but she wasn’t sure how well that had gone over. Eighty years was a long time to learn how to play cards. 

Then again, what did any of them know about her age?

The real reason—aside from feeling nauseated—was her miserable lack of funds or anything else worth betting. Cythril knew how they would have reacted if she’d said that. Mezlan Shutterspark would have welcomed her over anyway, insisting that they were only playing for fun, that she didn’t have to _gamble_. Pavu Thunderstride would have nodded along, dreamy and genuine. And then that blackguard Florence Fanshaw would have given her a Look, the one that said something witty about her having chosen the wrong line of work, if she hated socializing so much if she had to make up _excuses_ … 

She felt tired just thinking about it.

“Enjoying the scenery?” came a voice from behind her. 

“More the fresh air,” Cythril replied. “The view was impressive two days ago, but now… rather less so. ” 

She turned to see an elderly orc in plain brown robes, shuffling forward with the aid of a walking stick. Her eyes were, unmistakably, a milky grey-white.

Mentally, Cythril cursed herself. “Apologies. I meant no offense.” 

The orc laughed. “I’m sure you didn’t.” She tapped on her cheek, just below her left eye. “Just like Drek’Thar, eh? That’s what they all say.”

“Is it,” said Cythril. 

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t have said so if it wasn’t—and being a shaman certainly doesn’t help.” The old woman walked up to the edge of the deck, beside Cythril. “Tell me, child. What brings you on a trip like this?”

_Child?_ Cythril sputtered slightly, but didn’t bother to correct her. 

What could she say to a question like that? _Duty,_ maybe. _Honor, patriotism. Loyalty to the Horde._ But something made her tell the truth, this time.

“Familial obligations.”

The elderly orc nodded, as if she understood exactly the details of her situation. 

“Always a thorn in the side, those. Personally, I would have stayed right in Durotar if it wasn’t for my granddaughter—ever heard of competitive cactus breeding?” 

For a moment, she grinned fiercely. “But Ihzo said she would go in my place if I didn’t. Said she always wanted to see the world, and that all diplomacy took was talking a good game. That whelp! Never mind that she’s barely of age, and the most she ever had to talk to was those damned traders at Razor Hill.”

Cythril nodded sympathetically. “That must have been difficult.” Privately, she wondered how this Ihzo had planned to disguise herself as her grandmother, who was probably only a little younger than Cythril herself. 

She coughed. “I beg your pardon—my name is Cythril Evenflare. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Ehda,” replied the orc. “Once, it might have been ‘of the Burning Blade,’ but no longer.” She shook her head. “I never did earn my second name.”

Cythril’s eyes widened. 

“Then you are a… a flameseer?”

Ehda cocked her head in her direction, with a puzzled look on her face. “Hm. Not many outsiders know of that. You’re not an orc, are you?”

“I—ah, no. I’m a anthropologist. That is, a scholar of humanoid cultures. Specifically their religious traditions.” She paused, considering. “Granted, the term ‘humanoid’ _is_ of human origin, meaning that it could just as easily be called orcoid or sin’doroid or—well, you get the idea.”

Eha laughed—a hearty sound, if a tad croaking.

“Well! Thirty years I’ve been on this world, and you still see new things every day.”

“So it seems.” 

Cythril bent to rummage around in her pack for pen and paper. Nausea be damned, this was too valuable an opportunity to pass up. If _On the Formation of New Religious Movements_ didn’t work out, then perhaps she could still make a name for herself by conducting an study on the shamanistic traditions of the Burning Blade. And this could very well be the start of that.

“Would you mind answering some questions about your clan’s—ah, former clan’s—particular variety of shamanism?” She dipped the pen in ink, trying to steady herself against the taffrail. “I’ve heard you use a certain powder to perform your summonings—how exactly did this interact with your spiritual relationship to the elementals of Draenor? Were they offended? Pleased? Did they like the sparkles?”

When she finally looked over, Ehda was frowning slightly.

“Er, pardon me,” Cythril ventured. “Too much at once? I assure you, I didn’t mean to sound facetious.”

“Hmm. I think I _would_ mind, actually.” Ehda tapped her walking-stick twice against the deck. “That’s to the first question. My glory days are behind me—along with the dark days. But I _can_ tell you all about the current state of competitive cactus breeding in Durotar.”

Cythril heaved a sigh. Such was her life, apparently.

“...Very well.” She looked down at her notepad. “Do enlighten me.”

***

It turned out that not so many people had taken those letters as seriously as she had. Either that, or their distribution hadn’t been _quite_ as universal as they’d been made out to be. Or Sylvanas had decided that sending them all at once was a bad idea.

Whatever the case, the group that Cythril found herself arriving with was considerably smaller than she’d imagined. 

Oh, there were a good thirty of them, including a few of her old colleagues from Silvermoon. (She tried to avoid them. Strenuously.) Being emissaries to the Zandalari, trolls were well-represented. And a fair number of Forsaken had answered the call of the Dark Lady. Aside from that, the composition resembled your typical pan-Horde military unit, sans the ‘military.’ There were even one or two each from the shal'dorei and Highmountain shu'halo.

But this limited number meant that, invariably, Cythril would have to socialize with someone. She’d already learned more about the latest techniques in photography than she’d ever wanted to know, no matter how anthropologically significant—as well as a few cryptic tidbits on the symbolic significance of peacebloom in Thunder Bluff theater. 

In fairness, that had been because those two also lacked people to talk to. Unlike Cythril, it was not for lack of trying: Shutterspark suffered from an overabundance of enthusiasm for his art, and Thunderstride had a pensive, abstracted temperament that some found unnerving. Neither predisposed others to approach them. The goblin and tauren seemed to have struck up a peculiar friendship—but it by no means deterred Mezlan in his quest for candid photos, nor either of their quests for conversation.

And then there was _her_. 

***

As they approached Zandalar, Cythril ducked into one of the tabards that the embassy in Orgrimmar had issued them. They had instructed all of them to don those before arrival, so they would be immediately recognizable in the signature red-and-black of the Horde. 

A younger her might have noted, with displeasure, that it clashed with her hair. But now she barely minded. Things _could_ be worse, after all. Far worse.

She went above deck, still straightening out the wrinkles in her tabard. The water was growing lighter. A bright, crystalline blue. On the eastern horizon, she could just begin to see a line of pale sand—and, beyond that, the lush greenery.

More of the sailors were roving around the deck. Preparations for docking. The first mate, a troll named Zuvan, was barking orders from the forecastle. Cythril steered clear of them as she made her way across the main deck, privately congratulating herself for having lasted the trip without actually having to _talk_ to—

_Oh, no._

“Evenflare.”

Those black robes, the wild tufts of hair… and of course, the ruined face. All of it spiked up unwholesomely, silhouetted against the perfect azure sky. Cythril swore inwardly.

“Fanshaw.”

Sister Florence Fanshaw, cleric of the Forgotten Shadow and her erstwhile diplomatic liaison, smiled sharply.

“How fortuitous. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Cythril felt faintly vomitous; if it came, she hoped the upchuck would land on Fanshaw. She forced herself to chuckle. “Aha. And why in the world would I be _avoiding_ you? As if I could achieve such a thing. Honestly, you have such notions.”

Fanshaw shrugged. “It merely follows from your track record.”

“Does it.” Cythril smiled awkwardly, inhaling through her nostrils. “Well, I hope you know that I’m perfectly willing to let bygones be bygones and put all of that unfortunate business behind us.”

“Are you, now? How lovely for you.” 

Idly, Fanshaw pulled a graveworm from her cheek, examining it as though it contained all the secrets of the universe. “I’m not.”

Cythril kept smiling. It was beginning to feel tight.

“Neither, for that matter, is the Dark Lady,” said Fanshaw lightly. “She hasn’t forgotten how you deserted your post in the Undercity, in the dead of night, without so much as a note of forewarning…”

“As you’ll recall,” Cythril cut in, “I left my resignation on your desk. The other copy went to the Sunfury Spire. I was only an attaché, it was in no uncertain terms, and I believed they had made arrangements for my replacement. When it became clear that they had not…” 

She sighed, suitably dramatic, and massaged her forehead. “If I said anything, your people would have detained me and demanded an explanation. Mine would have been found wanting. And I can assure you that my superiors back in Silvermoon were _quite_ irate with me at the time.” 

Fanshaw looked unimpressed.

“Say what you will, Evenflare. They’re pretty excuses. Maybe you even believe them. But we both know the real reason that you did what you did.”

She pointed a finger at her. "You got your first glimpse of a _truly_ foreign culture—and you were _scared_. Did we remind you of Arthas? Poor you.” Fanshaw gave a dry laugh. “But remember who here is still breathing, and who had to build something new out of not being able to.”

“Mm.” Cythril eyed her flatly. “Did you have a point to make, perchance? Or is this kind of posturing its own reward?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

In the same casual tone of voice, she continued. “Know that I have my eye on you, Evenflare. At the first sign of disloyalty, the Warchief may just decide to arrange a little accident for you. Or perhaps your siblings. A blood knight and a magistrix, are they not? And all those aging aunts and uncles…”

Icy fingers clawed their way up her spine.

“Don’t bother,” Cythril replied, wresting her voice into steadiness. “We’re estranged. I mean, _I_ am. From all of them.”

“Then why is it,” murmured Fanshaw, “that a certain letter, which was sent to your family estates, ended up making its way to an address in Murder Row?”

Cythril grit her teeth.

“They send me letters sometimes. I never read them. The official one fell out, this time—” 

“For what you are, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

Fanshaw spun on her heel and turned away, stalking off towards the quarterdeck.

And so it transpired that, when they finally sailed into Zuldazar Harbor, Cythril stared at the golden city unable to marvel, or take notes, or indeed to comprehend any of it. She was too busy thinking of a certain letter that was tucked away in her luggage. That she had decided to bring with her, against all reason.

A letter that was signed _Your Biggest Fan_.


	4. Fear and Flight: The Psychology of Escaping One's Responsibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a reference to suicide and some surreal gore, in the context of a dream.

Jih’ris dreamed of Zuldazar. 

Unlike in the tales of old, this dream was not perfectly situated so as to impart some great didactic message. She had similar ones often. She had grown so used to them that sometimes she was able to seize control, maneuvering her dream-self to go sit in some obscure corner until she awoke. 

(The first few times she’d mastered this, she had flung herself off the sides of the great pyramid to bring the dream to an abrupt end. But one could only endure so many nights of interrupted sleep.)

Not so, tonight. 

Tonight the dream took her to the grand bazaar, overlooking the harbor. The sky was dark. The air smelled of blood, thick and cloying. Over everything hung a red mist. 

Now she was seated opposite Ko’chus and Galo’wey. As she watched, their skin began to peel, and then the flesh beneath, until she saw the white of bone. She looked out across the pavilion. Where before there had been people, merchants and bladeguards and fleet-footed street urchins—there nothing but bones, still performing the motions of life. 

And then she realized how thin she felt, how the breeze wove through her. And she no longer had the eyes to see.

She was young again, in their little room above the butcher’s shop. The curtains were drawn. From across the table, her mother slid over a plate. 

She looked down. 

Her own face stared back, eyeless. 

“I’m sorry, dear.” From the shadows: her mother’s voice, soft and contrite. “It’s all we have.”

***

Jih’ris came reeling awake. The motion was so violent that she nearly knocked over her tent. When she clawed her way outside, the sun had already risen, though it was not yet high in the sky. 

She went to Mugjabu first.

“You may not have cared much for me,” he said, gesturing at the alpaca pen, “but you could at least say goodbye to them.” 

Jih’ris looked over. Knowing they could be made into jerky as soon as their stores went thin, she had never coddled them. 

One of them, an elderly male, came up to the edge of the fence, staring at her with liquid eyes. He would be slaughtered soon. On some strange impulse, Jih’ris reached into the nearest bag of feed and held out a few leaves. The alpaca accepted them, and allowed her to pat him stiffly on the head, just once.

She turned back to Mugjabu. “I trust you’ll have someone else to take over my tasks.”

He nodded, crossing his arms. “We will. Won’t be as easy, but we managed before you came, and we’ll manage without you.”

Jih’ris allowed her stance to relax a little.

“For a long time, I could not allow myself to care for anything. This was hard work—but it did not require me to care. For that, I am grateful.”

Mugjabu blinked. A look of mild surprise came over his face. “Ah, well. You’re… welcome, I suppose.”

Jih’ris bowed her head. 

“Goodbye.”

As she walked away, she thought she heard something like _thank you_ , but it might have been the wind.

***

Next was Razgaji. From the look with which he greeted her, it seemed he already knew what she was going to say. 

His greeting confirmed it. “You’ll be leaving us.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s nothing personal. Just something that I need to do.”

He nodded, eyeing her warily. “And our location?”

“I’ll not betray it, on my honor.” Assuming she succeeded in regaining her standing (highly unlikely), she doubted that the authorities in Zuldazar would have much interest in that. Trusting the desert to do your work had its upsides. If the work wasn't done, it was none of your business.

“Hmph,” he sighed. “That’s as much as we can ask, I suppose.”

Jih’ris looked around the outpost for a final time. Rickety tents, alpacas in their pen, denizens just beginning to wake up. 

“Thank you—all of you here. For everything,” she said gravely, looking him in the eyes. “If I get back, I vow that I will try to do something about… all this. There must be another way.”

Razgaji looked pessimistic. For a moment she wondered how many other exiles he’d seen pass through this outpost, and how many had never returned.

“Good luck,” he said simply.

***

The clock-merchant’s map had been poor: outdated and lacking in detail. But that was to be expected. The Great Seal guarded their maps of Vol’dun jealously. They could hardly suffer any ordinary exile—or a foreigner—to get ahold of one. 

Jih’ris had pointed out to her two routes that they could take. 

The first would be faster. They could head directly north, skirting between the oasis and the temple at Atul’Aman. On foot, it would take more than a day to make it that far. They would have to avoid the Sandfury hideout directly north of Atul’Aman—on top of the Sandfury that actually controlled the temple complex. In total, it would be around four days’ journey.

(Mornbek had anticipated her question. “Just because we are of the same stock does not mean we see eye-to-eye,” she had said, making the same gesture as before: one finger upraised in the air. “Besides, take my word for it—there are worse things than the Sandfury buried away in that place.”

She had not given elaboration, and Jih’ris had not asked. Whatever untold horrors lurked in the depths of Atul’Aman, she could deal with them when she was a Raptari again, sworn into service by Gonk himself. Or she would never have to deal with them at all.)

The second would take longer. They could head west, circling around Whistlebloom and then turning eastward, passing through the Four Stingers and then heading in a northeastern direction, following the trail of ancient bones. The detour could add days to the trip. 

They decided on the former.

Either way, they would eventually come up to Bonepicker Summit and its surrounding groves, where the vulpera hid. From there, three paths led out of Vol’dun. The northernmost came right out from the Brine Basin, which itself was swarming with krolusks. It was a treacherous uphill climb, crawling with bonebeaks and dune lice the size of saurids, but it was said that the Necropolis lay only a stretch of swamp away, once on the other side. 

The next one down was much the same, except that it would instead deposit one directly before a sethrak encampment. 

The southernmost was the Prisoners’ Pass.

Jih’ris had been down it herself. In terms of terrain, it was perhaps the most forgiving, with a wide path and torches posted along the road. It led out into the Shoaljai pits, but beyond that—the prisoner-caravans only followed the path that ran north from Zuldazar. There was another one, she recalled vaguely, that branched off and led into the heart of Nazmir, but she’d never had cause to consider it.

“You made the right decision, you know,” said Mornbek, as they gathered up the last of their supplies. “I heard the princess herself is leading an expedition into Nazmir.”

Jih’ris gave no response.

And so, with the sun slowly rising, they set out into the desert.

***

Cythril was back at her family estates, in the old ballroom. There were many crystal chandeliers scattered and broken into pieces on the ground. They had fallen there from the ceiling. She picked her way gingerly through the shards. She wore no shoes. But she knew that no matter what, she had to get to the center.

At the center of the crystalline rubble sat a black cat. 

It was rotund, and stared at her with remarkably sapient eyes. Somehow, she knew that if she got close enough, it was going to bite off all her toes.

The cat opened its mouth, emitting a pterrordax’s shriek.

“SCRAAAK!”

She shot upright, rubbing at her eyes.

It was a grey morning; there was no sun. A cool breeze blew into her face. Would there be rain?

Already the terrace outside was bustling with activity. Worshippers were chanting their morning recitations, and the pterrordaxes followed suit. 

Heaving a sigh, Cythril hoisted herself out of the alcove. Ever since they’d arrived in Zuldazar, members of the delegation had been sent to curry favor with various factions in the Zandalari government. For her and several others, that meant ingratiating themselves with the Pa’kura priesthood.

In practice, it amounted to little more than scurrying about on odd jobs. Answering complaints, shepherding adventurers, deterring so-called champions from making religious _faux pas_ and apologizing on their behalf when they did: everything the Zandalari themselves could not be expected to deal with.

Her acrophobia didn’t help matters.

The authorities had allowed them to stay at the Terrace of the Chosen, just outside Zanchul. It was a diplomatic gesture, but Cythril knew that if she slipped and made an error, she was going right back to sleeping on the boat. None of them were important enough to warrant a place in the Great Seal.

First order of the day: “encouraging” adventurers to make use of the methods of transportation available to them.

A tauren warrior stood near a Totem of Pa’ku, wringing his hands. “It’s just, I’ve always been afraid of heights. Are you sure this is the only way to get around the city?”

Cythril fought the urge to grit her teeth. “Quite sure.”

“But why can’t we simply take our own mounts? I’d feel much safer on a wyvern.”

Feigning conspiracy, she leaned in. “Between you and me, sir, we simply lack the necessary standing with the Zandalari authorities.” An ingratiating smile. “Believe me, I fully sympathize. But to jeopardize the Horde’s diplomatic efforts on these isles over something so… well. You understand what I mean?” Cythril waved a hand helplessly.

The tauren seemed alerted to his hand-wringing, and quickly thrust them behind his back. “Well, I’d feel much better if someone came with me.”

Cythril glanced over the edge of the pyramid. They were on one of the higher tiers of Zanchul, overlooking the Zocalo. Below, the people resembled nothing so much as a colony of ants. (Except ants were far more organized.) 

She could hear rushing water.

“Of course, sir. I’ll gladly accompany you.”

 _I can still levitate, right?_ She hadn’t needed to try in quite some time. 

“Here, I shall demonstrate,” Cythril offered, producing one of the offerings that the priests had supplied her with. It was a small pouch that smelled of unfamiliar herbs and, rather disconcertingly, blood. “Simply request from these from the Pa’kura and place it before the totem.”

She handed it to the adventurer. He stared at her, expectant. _Right._ Cythril withdrew another pouch. She _had_ said she would demonstrate. Walking up to the totem, she placed it on the ground. Closed her eyes. Tried not to swallow audibly, as she became weightless and insubstantial and—well, a pterrordax. 

Then, she propelled into the air. 

The wind whistled past. Was this Fanshaw’s secret method of disposing of her? Enough harrowing flights, and it might just stop her heart? She wouldn’t put it past the woman. Blinking open her eyes, Cythril was greeted by the wonderful sight of the ground coming up to meet her. She quickly closed them. 

Not until she felt solid ground beneath her feet did she reopen them, at which point she slumped and braced her hands against her knees. There. The ground was _right there_. Where she could see every speck of dust, every bit of refuse the brutosaurs tracked through. As it should be.

“Er… emissary?” 

Cythril straightened immediately, spinning on her heel in a practiced motion. “Ahem. Yes?”

It was the tauren warrior, who—thank the Light—seemed to have figured it out on the first try. “You’ve been standing there for a few seconds. Is everything alright?”

“Of course, of course. I trust everything went well?”

“ _Well_? The view was magnificent! I think it just cured my fear of heights!”

Cythril forced a smile. “Congratulations, sir. I take it you'll be able to handle the transportation from now on?”

“Definitely,” he rumbled cheerily. “Thank you for that.”

“It was,” she replied, “no trouble at all.”

***

By the end of the day, there had been three more of those, two people who wanted directions but didn’t speak Zandali, and one dispute between a local shopkeeper and a ~~tourist~~ adventurer who was _exceptionally_ bad at haggling. 

She was on the verge of begging the Hexlord to be assigned paperwork, dignity be damned. Except she had the sneaking suspicion that he would just refer her to Fanshaw—who was, after all, their _immediate_ supervisor. And nothing good could come of that. (Her thoughts turned to the letter she now carried on her at all times. It hadn’t _seemed_ as if someone had tampered with her luggage, back on the ship. But one could never be sure. Perhaps this assignment was meant to ensure that she wouldn’t come anywhere near state secrets.)

Alcohol would help, but she didn’t quite trust herself to drink alone. And so at sundown she found herself at the Hot House with Mezlan Shutterspark, Pavu Thunderstride, and Ehda the flameseer-turned-cactus-breeder.

“Fellas, you won’t believe this!” Mezlan dropped into a seat, practically buzzing with excitement. A look from Pavu, and he amended his statement: “And dames, I mean. They finally gave me permission to photograph in the Zocalo!”

“A touchstone of cultural import,” Pavu offered, eyes distant. The young tauren had the tendency of speaking like an elder on the verge of dozing off, when he wasn’t waxing poetic about some topic of interest. And sometimes even then. “Just think, the generations upon generations that have trod this ground… Truly, a continuous interweaving of narratives. Paths written and overwritten by king and pauper alike.” He stared intently at his chili poppers. “Legendkeeper Anaasha has been most enlightening. I believe I’m closing in on a breakthrough in the hermeneutics… but how to bridge the gap between myth and history? Between fact and mimesis? Master Evenflare, you know something of semiotics, do you not?”

Cythril cringed inwardly. He had somehow discerned that she held only a middling degree in anthropology. Before Arthas swept through Silvermoon, it would have been enough to bar her from any serious studies, but nowadays things were no longer so stringent. In any case, it was still better than being called _Bachelor_ Evenflare.

(Besides that, she had the feeling that Thunderstride would be a much better fit for her intended profession than herself. If he only had the experience... and a little more focus.)

“Yes,” she replied, steepling her fingers. She found that if she squinted, she could almost get them to subsume back into ten. “Mostly exegetical. Is there anything specific—”

“Good grief,” Ehda said, setting down her cup. “Are we still speaking Orcish? I swear, you youngsters get stranger every generation.”

_Youngsters? Like yourself?_

There was spite in the thought. _Light_ , but she was tired.

“Debatable,” she demurred. “But we can talk later. Apologies, Pavu.” The aforementioned nodded sagely, still considering his chili poppers. “And congratulationsh… congratulations to you, Mezlan. Did you capture anything of note?”

He stared as if she’d said something of great affront, a _how-can-you-even-ask-that_ look. 

“Well, _yeah_. Loads of stuff. I mean, some they won’t let me publish for now—but they’ve gotta let up on that eventually.”

Cythril doubted it. She had an idea of what was proscribed. Beggar’s camps and pickpockets, hollow-eyed casteless, prisoners marching in long northwesterly columns—they would never allow those to reach the Orgrimmar papers. She hoped Mezlan would not try to send them anyway.

With a grunt, Mezlan lifted his camera onto the table, earning a few dirty looks from the other patrons. “I even got a shot of a _spirit_. From one of those flying totems. They don’t show up too well on this hunk a’ junk, but I coulda sworn it was flying with its eyes closed!”

Cythril winced. “Spare me, please. I’ve had entirely too many of those totems for one day.”

“Right,” he said, with only the slightest hint of disappointment. “‘Course. Sorry about that.”

“No, don’t be. It’s not as if,” she barely suppressed a hiccup, “as if someone died.” 

As if someone died. Caidmin slumping over in that too-large study, the one he never wanted. It would be poison, surely. Physical confrontation was too risky. Easier still for Cirys, at some society gala—no, at a Murder Row bar with not enough lighting—to take a sip of her drink and fall over dead. _After she got herself chased out of Dalaran for you_ , Cythril thought inanely. _F_ _or the Horde. Victory or death_.

“Pardon me,” she said, standing up suddenly. “I should be heading back. If I drink any more I believe I shall start dancing, so I'll contrive to save you all from such a terrible fate.” _No thanks to any of you_ came to mind unbidden. “Please don’t follow me.” 

The three of them stared at her. (In Ehda’s case, at a point approximate to her voice.)

Then, Ehda laughed.

“Nobly done.” She raised one last toast to Cythril, still grinning. “To martyrdom!”

Cythril smiled back, trying to mean it. “Indeed.”

Pavu toasted her with a chili popper and placed it in his mouth, chewing methodically. For several seconds his expression remained perfectly flat. Then, he swallowed quickly—and began to gasp for breath.

“It’th... carnivorouth.”

_How portentous._

***

In the darkness, spots of flame bloomed throughout the Zocalo. Almost unconsciously, Cythril had grown accustomed to the district—the thunderous steps of an approaching brutosaur, the multicolored glow of enchanted items on display, and all the little sights and sounds that blended to form its atmosphere. 

It was, she had concluded, largely dissimilar to Murder Row. 

Of course, one could still find misery and squalor if they went looking. But the place, as a whole, felt warmer. Even at night, open conversation filled the air, as the merchants mercilessly hawked their wares. A far cry from the whispers and secret transactions that had haunted a city reduced to a tenth of its former population, even a decade afterward. 

Then again, it could just be the physical temperature. Eversong was balmy, but it wasn’t _tropical_.

Such thoughts occupied her mind as she circled around to the eastern side of the terrace, looking for the stairs that would bring her down to a lower tier. Another thing about those totems—usually they would only take you in one direction and not the other. Which meant that she could not simply rely on conveyance back to the one that had brought her down in the first place.

Finally, she found the one that she was looking for. It would be a steep ascent. Possibly higher than the one from this morning; and this time, going up. 

Would exhaustion and inebriation be enough to offset the effects?

Cythril placed her pouch before the totem. Then, feeling slightly ridiculous, she tried to piece together a prayer. 

Likely Pa’ku would not respond well to cowardice. From what she’d read of the loa, there wasn’t much she _would_ respond well to. 

Flattery, perhaps? _O great Pa’ku, Master of Winds, grant me the direction to make my own way in this life._ And a touch of audacity, for pique. _For is it not true that the winds themselves must always have a direction? And should we not all strive to emulate your domain?_

That feeling of dispersal, like turning into clouds… and the totem was whisking her up, up, up into the air. As the city shrank beneath her, she felt strangely calm. Temporarily taking the shape of a ghostly pterrordax, without control over one’s own movements—it all seemed like some marvelously entertaining illusion. Perhaps it was the drink, or maybe that tauren really hadn’t been exaggerating the curative effects of these trips. 

Or perhaps the loa had answered her prayers.

A shadow fell over her. Cythril craned her head to look, but something caught her by the waist. Suddenly she was no longer the phantasmagoric pterrordax.

It couldn’t be. Was it really…? 

_Pa’ku?_ she thought absurdly. _Are you to save me from my fate?_

Her thoughts spiraled in wild directions. _O,_ _Lord of Wind, you have my eternal gratitude. No, my firstborn! Figuratively. My figurative firstborn! My brainchild, my_ magnum opus _. I shall dedicate my book to you, and explore in it the myriad traditions of the Pa’kura and Paku’ai, in all their possible permutations on these isles and beyond. If you could just tell my employers that I didn’t actually desert…_

Then she realized that the thing around her waist was neither scale nor talon, but, in fact, a perfectly warm-blooded limb. An arm, to be precise.

She turned her head to look. Above her stretched the magnificent wings of a goblin glider.

And just below that—

“Hello, Ms. Evenflare,” said the draenei. She wore goggles. Only the absurdity of this prevented Cythril from screaming. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your biggest fan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weaver Anaasha (the Legendkeeper) and "carnivorous chili poppers" exist in-game! As for the specifics of her role, and what they taste like, I have no idea. Everything in this chapter is pure speculation.
> 
> Raptari Galo'wey and Wardruid Ko'chus are also named NPCs, with the latter participating in island expeditions. (Why do I like name-dropping so much?)


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